Greatest Gym in the World
Last night I started a free one-week trial membership at Chelsea Piers, the gym a few blocks down my street. It's the gym people join because they might see Ethan Hawke. I don't give a shit about Ethan Hawke, except that I consider his first novel one of the guiltiest mild pleasures of my life. But this gym is something else, and if I stay in New York, I'll have to find a way to afford the $160/month dues.
Converted from a gigantic warehouse on the Hudson River, it's got every amusement one could imagine, from huge rock-climbing wall to batting cages. You've got things like bins of mouthwash and Q-tips in the bathroom. Tonight the fame-obsessed were pleased as punch because the L.A. crowd was in the house at an independent film award ceremony. I asked someone who I was looking at and received a fusillade of actors' names I didn't recognize.
Last night I did a jumprope course with an Olympic boxing aspirant named Gary. Gary kicked my ass. I had visions of them wheeling me out of there on a stretcher. I don't know how he concocted this shit, but it involved lots of jumping rope, barbells, pushups and holding one's body in impossible contortions. Today I can't properly raise my arms, which wreaked havoc on my basketball game.
I played with a gang of Italian thugs, and I'll have to do the accent for you when we meet in person, but you see it on TV every day, as no cultures seem to mesmerize Americans like snobby Brits (everyone loves their old rulers) and Italian mobsters:
"Vito, why you holdin' your back? Don't mess wit your spine. D'you hurt it in that last game?"
"Nah, I hurt it grindin' wit dat crazy chick on the dancefloor the other night." He tried to demonstrate but it hurt his back too much.
I couldn't admit it to the Italians, but before the game I did an hour and a half of an advanced yoga class with a guy whose yoga accent I could not believe. I've heard many yoga teachers affect a fake Indian accent on the words "inhell" and "exhell," but this guy drew the word "inhale" out for about five seconds: "eeeeeenhelllllll AND exhell." Some of the positions were so impossible that I laughed, until he came over and said "I'm going to open you up" and filled me with fear. He tried to take my leg and put it over my shoulder and I said a bit too loud, "No no, that's okay."
Well it's too bad I only get another week in this apartment on West 20th Street. It has to be one of the nicest little walks in New York, this Chelsea historic district that was developed by the guy who wrote, "Twas the Night Before Christmas." It's a quiet street with some old churches and three-story apartments set back with steps. On the way home from the gym only two cars passed me. I ate two slices of pizza sitting out on my stoop. I thought I'd strike it up with the locals, but the only one who passed was a tiny Asian female cop. I had an urge to jump off my stoop and tackle her to see what she would do.
Converted from a gigantic warehouse on the Hudson River, it's got every amusement one could imagine, from huge rock-climbing wall to batting cages. You've got things like bins of mouthwash and Q-tips in the bathroom. Tonight the fame-obsessed were pleased as punch because the L.A. crowd was in the house at an independent film award ceremony. I asked someone who I was looking at and received a fusillade of actors' names I didn't recognize.
Last night I did a jumprope course with an Olympic boxing aspirant named Gary. Gary kicked my ass. I had visions of them wheeling me out of there on a stretcher. I don't know how he concocted this shit, but it involved lots of jumping rope, barbells, pushups and holding one's body in impossible contortions. Today I can't properly raise my arms, which wreaked havoc on my basketball game.
I played with a gang of Italian thugs, and I'll have to do the accent for you when we meet in person, but you see it on TV every day, as no cultures seem to mesmerize Americans like snobby Brits (everyone loves their old rulers) and Italian mobsters:
"Vito, why you holdin' your back? Don't mess wit your spine. D'you hurt it in that last game?"
"Nah, I hurt it grindin' wit dat crazy chick on the dancefloor the other night." He tried to demonstrate but it hurt his back too much.
I couldn't admit it to the Italians, but before the game I did an hour and a half of an advanced yoga class with a guy whose yoga accent I could not believe. I've heard many yoga teachers affect a fake Indian accent on the words "inhell" and "exhell," but this guy drew the word "inhale" out for about five seconds: "eeeeeenhelllllll AND exhell." Some of the positions were so impossible that I laughed, until he came over and said "I'm going to open you up" and filled me with fear. He tried to take my leg and put it over my shoulder and I said a bit too loud, "No no, that's okay."
Well it's too bad I only get another week in this apartment on West 20th Street. It has to be one of the nicest little walks in New York, this Chelsea historic district that was developed by the guy who wrote, "Twas the Night Before Christmas." It's a quiet street with some old churches and three-story apartments set back with steps. On the way home from the gym only two cars passed me. I ate two slices of pizza sitting out on my stoop. I thought I'd strike it up with the locals, but the only one who passed was a tiny Asian female cop. I had an urge to jump off my stoop and tackle her to see what she would do.
posted by Thon at 9:44 PM
2 Comments:
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